


Learning to See

by emeralddawn



Series: RotG kinkmeme fills [12]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen, OC-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-11 14:01:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2070993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emeralddawn/pseuds/emeralddawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s nothing that says adults can’t believe, it’s only that most of them don’t.  Then again, most of them don’t have a son who’s best friends with Jack Frost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning to See

**Author's Note:**

> for [this prompt](http://rotg-kink.dreamwidth.org/2389.html?thread=4001109#cmt4001109) on the rotg kinkmeme

“Vision is the art of seeing things invisible.”  
― _Jonathan Swift_

\--

It’s the tail end of one of Emily Bennett’s days off and she’s making hot chocolate from scratch, as a thank you to the kids. It’s been crazy at work, but they’ve been good when she’s asked and they deserve a little treat. She’s stirring in the last of the chocolate when Jamie spies something through the window and excuses himself with a rushed, “Be right back, Mom!”

She hears him stomping up the stairs to his room, a muffled exclamation, and then he stampedes back down. The chocolate’s still melting, but it shouldn’t be much longer.

Jamie climbs back into his chair, and Sophie cries out with delight, “Snow day snow day!”

She watches her kids converse with thin air. It’s not the first time, and she doubts it will be the last. Ever since Easter almost a year ago now, Jamie especially and Sophie on occasion talk about (and to) Jack Frost, a teenage boy who apparently embodies the fun of winter—though Jamie will say, with an air of quotation, that he’s “snowballs and fun times”. 

Sophie pouts in the direction of the kitchen door and says, “Bedtime’s boring.”

The door must say something conciliatory, because she settles into her chair with a mildly less discontented face. Emily asks, “Who’re you talking to, Sophie?”

“Jack Frost!” Sophie claims, as Emily half-expects. The little girl points toward the stove, slightly to the left of where Emily’s standing. She didn’t notice it before, but she does now: there’s a slight chill to the air. She wonders if Jamie left his bedroom window open again, or if one of them opened one of the windows in the family room. She’ll have to check before she goes to bed.

Still, she plays along with her youngest. “Oh, really? Shouldn’t he be outside causing mischief?”

Jamie shakes his head. “He’s never had hot chocolate before. So I thought maybe he could try some.”

She’s never heard of two children having the same imaginary friend, though that’s the only thing Emily can figure. She worries about her children sometimes, but Jamie’s only eleven and his sister just turned five, so it’s probably typical childhood silliness.

Before Emily can think up a reply, Jamie says _sotto-voce_ , apparently to Jack Frost, “You’ve never had ice cream or popsicles before. Why would you have had hot chocolate?”

She wonders why Jamie’s invisible friend hasn’t had all the culinary staples of a happy childhood. She has also wondered why Jack Frost is a teenager and not closer to Jamie’s age, though maybe Jamie just wants an older male role model. Their father is depressingly absent, and Emily feels guilty for that. (Angry, too, at that bastard who walked out on his family.)

She drags her attention back to her children and says, “Well, that’s no good. Everyone should have hot chocolate, isn’t that right, Sophie?”

“Choc’late choc’late choc’late an’ marshmallows!” Sophie chants. Emily smiles at her daughter’s enthusiasm and gives the hot chocolate one last stir with the mixing spoon.

“Alright, it’s done!” Emily announces. She gets down three mugs at first, but Jamie interrupts her.

“Mom, Jack needs a mug!” he insists, and Emily goes back for the necessary item. It’s the work of a moment to pour the hot chocolate evenly into the four mugs, though they all get less than she planned because of their unexpected ‘guest’.

The next step is marshmallows. Emily usually abstains, since the chocolate is sweet enough on its own, but she adds a good handful to her children’s mugs as well as a spoon for stirring. She looks indecisively at the fourth mug before asking her children (Jack Frost is their imaginary friend, after all), “Does Jack want marshmallows?”

“Lots and lots and lots!” Sophie cries, getting onto her knees and bouncing a bit.

“Alright, Sophia, remember, we _sit_ in chairs if we want hot chocolate,” Emily says, mildly scolding. Sophie obediently slides back onto her tush and Emily adds the last handful of marshmallows to the fourth mug.

She sets one mug before each person and in front of the empty fourth chair. Jamie looks at the chair, then shrugs. “Dunno. Sugar? They’re really good, you’ll like them. Here.”

He grabs a few marshmallows from the bag and puts them down next to Jack’s mug. Emily turns to help Sophie stir the marshmallows into the hot chocolate, so she only hears, a moment later, Jamie say smugly, “I know, right?”

Over the course of the evening, her children continue to talk to ‘Jack Frost,’ including her in their conversation as if she can hear him, and sometimes repeating questions when she ‘doesn’t hear them the first time’ (or at all, really). Despite the invisible fourth presence that her children can see but she can’t, it’s a fun, laughter-filled two hours before she sends the kids up to bed.

Sophie’s easier to put down than she expected, not fighting her bath like she usually would, and only requiring one read-through of _The Easter Egg_ by Jan Brett. (Sophie criticizes her Easter Bunny accent, as she does every time. Emily doesn’t know where Sophie gets the idea that the Easter Bunny is Australian, nor where she heard an Australian accent in the first place.) Jamie also says his goodnights quickly, though she can hear him talking to ‘Jack Frost’ through his door, as is usual on days when the invisible boy visits.

She’s never heard of an invisible friend who is only sometimes present, either. Chalk up one more strangeness to her children.

Really, she just doesn’t want Jamie to grow up to be that guy on the History Channel with the alien conspiracy theories and the crazy hair.

Emily goes back downstairs to do the dishes, only to find the mugs and spoons in the sink and the marshmallow bag closed up and set neatly on the counter. Jack Frost’s mug is empty, though she never saw her children sneaking sips. 

There’s a faint fernlike frost pattern melting on the handles of the mugs.

\--

The next day, as Sophie predicted, is a snow day.

Emily ponders that as she pulls on her coat and calls one of the high schoolers she has on babysitting speed-dial. Her children are strangely good at predicting winter weather, especially snow days—it verges on uncanny. 

The sitter promises to come over and feed her children around lunch, and spend a couple hours making sure they’re alright. Then Emily kisses her children on the cheek, admonishes them to be good—“Mom, c’mon, we’ll be fine, Jack won’t let anything happen!”—and rushes out the door. She hates leaving them alone, but what can she do? Just because school is cancelled doesn’t mean her work is.

\--

The first time she hears about Jack Frost, she’s just come home from work and said goodbye to the sitter. She goes upstairs to finish putting her kids to bed and hears Jamie telling Sophie a story. It’s two days after the disastrous Easter in which all the eggs seemed to disappear into thin air.

“—and then Jack Frost made it snow! _Inside_ my room!”

Emily’s happy to hear Jamie in good spirits, but makes a mental note to check her son’s room for water damage. If he damaged his library books out of some whimsy to see it snow in his room, he’ll be paying the fines out of his allowance. (His own books are his responsibility, so she doesn’t worry about them.)

But that’s all the mind she pays to it that night. 

She doesn’t notice until later that the picture he drew of his sledding adventure has gained a new figure, a boy in blue and brown, with white hair and a shepherd’s crook, who’s floating in the air next to Jamie’s flying sled.

\--

Jack Frost becomes a central figure in their lives from that day forward. He plays with the kids, keeps them out of too much trouble, and continues to visit well into the summer months. Emily never says anything when she notices out-of-season frosts on her windows and sometimes her furniture—that it happens when Jack Frost visits is entirely coincidental. She attributes sudden cold spots to inefficient heating and makes a note to call a repairman. (She never does.)

She continues to worry about her children, Jamie more than Sophie. It’s normal for children to have imaginary friends, she tells herself. But they’re not usually quite so individual as Jack seems to be, nor so…adult. Sometimes when Jamie’s recounting one of his adventures with Jack Frost, they’ll be just that: adventures that any preteen would make up. But then Jamie will relay a bit of Jack Frost wisdom—

“You’ll never be too old to have fun,” when Jamie had an entirely inexplicable existential crisis about growing up.

“You can’t please everybody. You have to be yourself, and if that’s not enough, they weren’t your friends anyway,” when Jamie had a falling-out with a friend from school.

“You protect what you love and you don’t regret it,” when Jamie got in trouble for protecting Sophie from bullies.

—and Emily will think, this doesn’t sound like an eleven-year-old boy. But if not Jamie’s thoughts spoken aloud, what are they?

\--

Jamie comes home depressed one day. Sophie had a play date after school and Emily had an early day, so it’s just Emily and Jamie in the house. She asks him what’s wrong.

“What do you do when your best friend’s really sad and you can’t make it better?” Jamie asks, curling into her side. Emily runs her hand through his hair.

“I don’t know, honey. Sometimes all you can do is be with them, and hope your presence brings them some comfort. What happened? Did someone tease Cupcake about her weight again?”

Jamie shakes his head. “Everyone’s too scared, especially since the last kid who did that got his tongue frozen to the water fountain in the middle of summer.”

Emily makes an understanding noise, though she can’t help but think, _Frozen in the middle of summer?_ She prods, “What, then?”

“It’s Jack’s sister’s birthday today,” Jamie says softly.

“Congratulations,” Emily says after a moment. “How old is she?”

“Dunno. Three-hundred-and-something, I guess. Jack says she was only seven when he was made into Jack Frost,” Jamie explains, still subdued. “But he forgot all about her and now she’s dead, she’s been dead for like three centuries! And Jack’s upset because he forgot her and he missed her growing up and he doesn’t even know what happened to her. And I don’t know how to make that better, because if I ever forgot about Sophie I don’t think _anything_ could cheer me up.”

“That means you’re a really good brother,” Emily says, kissing the crown of Jamie’s head.

“And Jack’s the best. Mom, he’s _really sad._ I don’t know what to do,” Jamie repeats mournfully. 

Emily wonders why she doesn’t find it strange to talk about her children’s invisible friend’s made up (and apparently colonial-era) dead sister as if they’re both real people. But the important thing is that her son is upset, and the only way to help him is to help Jack Frost. She goes with it. (She doesn’t spend enough time with her children as it is. She doesn’t want to spend it fighting.) “Do you think if he found out what happened to her, it would make him feel better?”

Jamie sniffles. “Maybe.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Emily says. “Tomorrow’s my day off. Ask Jack what his sister’s name was, when she was born and where she lived, and we’ll go to the library and see if we can find anything, huh?”

“Okay,” Jamie murmurs.

Emily doesn’t expect to find anything about a most likely made-up person, but she was planning on going to the library tomorrow, anyway, to see if she could find more Easter- or rabbit-themed books for Sophie. The girl remains obsessed with an Australian Easter Bunny, no matter what other fancies come and go.

“Now,” Emily says, giving him one last tight squeeze. “Why don’t you go outside and play. Distract Jack with a game, maybe. Or ask him about his sister, if it doesn’t bother him to talk about her. Sometimes people like to remember their loved ones.”

“Okay,” Jamie repeats, more strongly. He hugs back just as tightly before wiggling out of her embrace and running out the door. “Thanks, Mom!”

The next day, when they’re researching at the library (her name was Emma Overland, she was one of the original Burgess settlers back in the early 1700s along with her mother and father and older brother Jackson, and she married the small town’s blacksmith and had five children), Emily thinks she sees a boy in a blue hoodie sitting next to Jamie and pouring over old town records. When she turns to look, no one’s there. She dismisses the boy as a figment of her imagination—too many of her children’s stories about Jack Frost, not enough sleep—but the incident lingers in the back of her mind.

\--

It’s one of those mornings where nothing’s going right. She either doesn’t hear her alarm clock or sleeps right through it, because Jamie wakes her up looking worried.

“If you don’t get up you’re going to be late for work,” he says. She glances groggily at the clock and jolts with adrenaline: Jamie’s right, if she doesn’t get up now, she’ll be _very_ late to work.

“Is your sister up?” she asks. Jamie shakes his head. Emily curses internally, and tells Jamie, “Get ready for school, I’ll get her up.”

Sophie does not, _emphatically_ does not want to get up this morning. She fights everything: leaving bed, getting dressed, brushing her teeth. Brushing her hair is a battle on good days, so today Emily throws her hands up and tells Sophie she can go to school looking like a wild child for all she cares. Sophie throws a rare tantrum. Emily leaves her on the floor of the bathroom to wear herself out crying and screaming.

Jamie has gotten distracted in his room with a book—“But Mom, it’s a really interesting part!”—but she manages to shuffle him downstairs. She gets out bowls (one slips out of her hands and breaks, but luckily it only breaks in half, so she’s able to throw it in the trash and get a new one without worrying about porcelain shards) but leaves the pouring to Jamie. She dashes upstairs, barely missing a toy car that’s on the stairs.

“Jamie, get this car out of the way before someone steps on it and breaks their neck falling down the stairs,” she calls into the kitchen, even as she rushes into her room to throw on her work clothes.

“Okay, Mom,” Jamie calls back. She hears what might be, “Oh, hey, Jack” or “Oh heck,” and if it’s the latter he’s getting grounded, but Sophie’s finally stopped screaming, so it’s time to get her downstairs and eating breakfast.

Emily leaves her youngest stomping unhappily down the stairs to the kitchen, where Jamie has hopefully poured her a bowl of cereal and milk. She slaps on some mascara and eyeliner, and grabs her lipstick and her hand mirror. She puts on her lipstick while she’s going down the stairs, paying absolutely no attention to where she’s stepping.

Inevitably, she steps on the toy car.

It rolls out from under her foot, and instead of pitching backwards, which would lead to a rather painful but ultimately harmless fall, she topples forward. The world slows down. She can see the handrail in her peripheral vision, but her hands are occupied with her lipstick and hand mirror. The staircase looms large in her vision, and she can see each stair lip with suddenly sharp sight. She knows that there’s nothing she can do to stop herself.

This is going to hurt.

But it doesn’t. Wind rips down the stairs and cushions her fall, and she lands in something cold and soft which poofs up with her weight and falls down softly through the air: snow. She lands in a freak indoor snow bank.

Jamie and Sophie come running out, drawn by the shriek Emily can hear echoing in her ears. She must have screamed on the way down, though she doesn’t remember doing so.

“Oh my god, Mom! Are you okay?” Jamie cries, falling to his knees next to her. She notices, absently, how the snow melts and soaks into his jeans. She’s going to have to do something about the snow before it warps the hardwood floors. Sophie barrels into her and wraps her arms around Emily’s neck, clinging and frightened and crying again.

“I’m—I’m fine,” Emily says breathlessly. She vaguely feels like she’s hyperventilating, but she can’t seem to stop.

Jamie glances to the side. He nods, then grabs Emily’s hand and puts it against his chest. His heart is beating too quickly, but his breaths are even.

“Mom? Mom, I need you to focus,” he says seriously. Jamie rarely sounds like that, so Emily pays attention. “Mom, I need you to breathe with me. In one two three, out one two three, hold.”

He sounds like he’s parroting something, maybe one of those emergency videos, but he’s calm and so Emily tries to match her breathing to his. After a minute, her breathing finally slows. She draws Jamie into her embrace and starts comforting her children, even as her rational mind begins to race.

What just happened?

She calls in sick to work, excuses the kids from school. Then she makes them hot chocolate, and adds a good shot of whiskey to hers. (She pours out a fourth mug by accident; it seems whenever she makes hot chocolate, Jack Frost is there, and it’s become routine.) The mundane task settles her nerves. She resolves not to worry about the snow at the bottom of her staircase, but when she brings out the hot chocolate to the living room, the only trace of it is a large wet spot on the floor rug. 

That makes three impossible things before breakfast; she’s half-way to Wonderland now.

They settle on the couch, Sophie back in her lap, and Jamie snuggled up to her side. The cold spot has moved to the empty side of the couch, but Emily can’t be bothered to care right now. And then, because she has no idea what just happened, she asks Jamie, “What happened?”

“Jack saved you.”

Of course he did.

Emily nods as if this makes sense. Out-of-season frosts, random cold spots, strangely controlled wind that cushions her fall but doesn’t knock over any of the pictures on the staircase wall, mysteriously appearing and disappearing snowdrifts…of course it’s all Jack Frost.

They finish their hot chocolates in relative quiet. Sophie hiccups every once in a while, and then she falls asleep, completely exhausted by her earlier tantrum and more recent crying jag. Jamie doesn’t mean to, but he follows soon after. Emily thinks that’s not a bad idea. But first, she has to put the mugs in the sink.

She gently extracts herself from her children’s grips and pads over to the kitchen. She means to just fill the mugs with water and then rejoin her kids on the couch, but instead she leans her hands against the counter and spends a minute breathing. Simply breathing.

She almost fell down the stairs this morning. People have broken bones doing that. People have _died_ doing that. And she was saved by the weather. Indoors. Where weather shouldn’t be.

Unless you’re Jack Frost.

She looks up and catches sight of the windows, frosted around the edges even though it’s only early October. What the hell, maybe Jack Frost is real. Children are supposed to be closer to the spirit realm, if you believe in that sort of thing.

So, to cover her bases, she says, “Thank you, Jack Frost.”

She doesn’t expect Jack Frost to answer, “You’re welcome.”

Emily startles and swings around. Leaning against the counter right next to her—in the cold spot, come to think of it—is a white-haired youth in ratty brown pants and a blue hoodie. He has a crooked staff in one hand and he’s barefoot. He looks like Jamie’s description of Jack Frost. Most of that she acknowledges later; her immediate thought is that there’s a stranger in the kitchen and her kids are in the next room. She grabs her cast-iron skillet, still on the stovetop from when she last fried bacon, and in the fine tradition of Disney’s Rapunzel, she swings it at his head.

He ducks with alacrity and she barely stops herself from hitting her cabinets.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please don’t swing that at me again,” the boy yelps, brandishing the staff like a weapon. If she believes her children’s stories, it is.

Emily drops the skillet back onto the stove and stares at the boy. Her hands are shaking. She says, “Jack Frost?”

He straightens and stares back. “You can see me?”

Emily’s knees buckle. Jack’s hands catch her under the elbows, and they’re chilled through her long-sleeved blouse.

“Whoa, easy, easy, you okay?” he asks in concern. His dark eyebrows are furrowed and his blue eyes narrowed slightly from worry. Emily makes a sound that might be reassurance or might be a dying whale noise. The boy—he’s not Jack Frost, he’s not, oh god he is, he totally is, she’s interacting with her children’s imaginary friend—steadies her and says, “Let’s get you to the couch.”

Luckily, Jamie and Sophie are still asleep, so they don’t see their mother freaking out. And though Emily is quiet about it, she is definitely freaking out. Jack sets her down on the part not occupied by sleeping children, still retaining some residual coldness, and he sits on the ottoman across from her. She stares at him. He stares back.

“Were you sitting here before?” she blurts out.

Jack hesitates a blink or two, probably at her completely non-sequitur question, then nods. “Yeah. Uh, I wanted to make sure you were okay after all…that,” he motions at the staircase, “but I’m intangible to people who can’t see me, so I didn’t want to get too close and, y’know, slide through you. It’s unpleasant.”

Emily truly and honestly does not know what to say.

Because she’s talking to a figment of her son’s imagination. A figment he shares with Sophie. A figment who might actually not be so imaginary after all.

Maybe she did fall and hit her head and this is some strange coma dream?

“Was that you, with the wind,” she makes a swooshing motion with her hand, and then mimes a mound, “and the snow?” She’s talking more with her hands than she usually does, but she’s filled with a strange sort of nervous energy, part leftover adrenaline from the hectic morning and two unpleasant scares, and part incredulity.

She is _not_ talking to Jack Frost in her living room.

Jack nods and says, “Yeah, that was me. Uh, sorry about your rug, but snow was the softest thing I could think of. Except pillows, but that probably would have taken too long to move into position.”

She’s talking to Jack Frost in her living room, isn’t she. Oh, god.

“Jamie survived a header into a snow bank and he was fine,” Jack continues, then winces a bit and adds, “mostly. The sofa was an accident.”

“You’re Jamie’s and Sophie’s imaginary friend,” Emily says blankly. “You don’t exist. How can you be real?”

Jack gives a full-body flinch and looks down, clutching his staff close to him with white-knuckled hands. She only realizes with the contrast that his skin does actually have a pinkish undertone, as if there’s red human blood pumping through regular human veins. And then she remembers _300 years alone, forgot his sister, Jamie was the first one to see him, invisible and intangible_ and closes her eyes guiltily.

“I’m sorry, that was—I didn’t—this has been a bad morning,” she says softly.

Jack shrugs and doesn’t look at her. “Yeah, I know. It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

And that’s heartbreaking. She thinks if Jamie ever looks so alone and miserable and resigned, she might start crying and never stop. And because he looks like he needs a hug—and damn it, she could use one too—Emily leans forward and wraps her arms around his shoulders. His staff is a hard line against her clavicle, and he freezes up completely for the space of a breath. Then he relaxes all at once, and releases his staff with one hand to wrap her in a reciprocal embrace.

 _He was like a statue for a minute before he hugged me back,_ Emily remembers Jamie saying when recounting the fight against the Boogeyman. Emily’s heart aches when she realizes that, if her son’s not exaggerating Jack’s age or his reaction, it was probably his first hug in a very, very long time. She resolves to hug him as often as she can until the typical teenage ‘ugh, hugs’ reaction sets in.

And just like that, she’s accepted that yes, Jack Frost is real.

“Oh my god, does that mean that Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy and the Sandman all exist?” she breathes in realization.

Jack chuckles. “Yup. All as real as I am.”

Emily releases him suddenly to glare. “Did you draw my son into a deadly battle against _the King of Nightmares_?! Wherein he proceeded to run around _barefoot and in his pajamas in the snow_?!”

Jack looks shifty and hooks his free hand behind his neck. He looks up through his lashes, far too sheepish and adorable for Emily to stay angry for long. “Yeah, that might have happened…”

Emily closes her eyes and draws him back into her arms. He’s cold, but not uncomfortably so, and she can feel his spine beneath her palms. He’s much too thin—she’ll fix that, too. 

\--

“You know,” Jack says quietly, so as not to wake the kids, “you sound like my mother used to. I think. I don’t remember her that well.”

It’s an hour later, and he’s still holding on. They’ve shifted so that Emily is in the corner of the couch and Jack is leaning against her, his feet tucked under Jamie’s ankles. The boy had only wrinkled his nose at the chill, and hadn’t woken. Jack’s staff is balanced on top of the ottoman, and by the hesitant way Jack had released it, Emily guesses he doesn’t often put it down.

“The way Jamie talks about you, you’re practically family already,” Emily says. She makes a decision: she has a perfectly functional guest room that never gets used, she might as well do something worthwhile with it. And like hell she’s sending a boy not much older than her son back out into the cold. Well, the temperature probably isn’t a deciding factor, but the point stands. “We can make it semi-official. You can move into the spare room.”

Jack freezes again—what an apt expression—in surprise. He says hesitantly, “You don’t have to do that.”

“I do,” Emily declares simply. Because he’s been a good friend and protector to Jamie. Because he’s been homeless and loveless for three hundred years. Because he’s Jamie’s and Sophie’s big brother. Because Emily could easily love him like a son. “We can go paint shopping later, when the kids wake up, and you can decorate it however you want. And if you want to change any furniture around or get something new, tell me and we can go to Ikea.”

Jack doesn’t reply. Emily looks down and when their eyes meet, he looks at his lap and frost spreads over his cheeks and the shells of his ears. That must be his version of a blush.

She lets the silence stand, closes her eyes and leans her head against the back of the couch. She thinks she sees, out of the corner of her eye, the glint of golden sand. She’s starting to drift off when she hears Jack whisper, “Thanks.”

“Wake me in an hour, we’ll go shopping,” Emily says, and lets herself fall into a doze. 

\--

The first thing she does is find an electronics store and buy a Bluetooth headset. People always look crazy when they’re on hands-free sets, but it’s a socially acceptable kind of crazy.

Jack ends up picking a warm ochre instead of the blues Emily expected. Sophie approves the Easter-like color, Jamie doesn’t care, and Emily is a bit puzzled. When asked, he shrugs. “I get enough of winter colors. I like yellow. It’s happy.”

 _Well,_ Emily thinks with a small smile, _there you go._

\--

Instead of painting all his walls the color, Jack paints one wall solid and swirls the yellow into spiraling, fractaling patterns across the other three. The final effect, nearly two weeks after he starts, is beautiful.

\--

“So, how much do you want for allowance?” Emily asks, sitting down with the chore sheet and a determined expression. Jack and Jamie look up from where Jack is teaching Jamie to cheat at poker. Emily thinks she should stop them, but all she says is, “You better not let anyone catch you cheating, and if you cheat at anything other than poker you’ll be grounded until you’re eighteen.”

“Yeah, Mom,” Jamie complains, tongue sticking out as he practices palming cards.

Jack sets his cards down and wanders over to look at the chore sheet over Emily’s shoulder. Jamie takes the opportunity to look at his hand. Jack seems puzzled. “Allowance?”

He says the word like he’s never heard it before. Emily adds Jack’s name under Sophie’s, and pens in an extra box: ‘babysitting’. (In another few weeks, she’ll add a new category: ‘dinner’.)

“Well, the kids get weekly allowance, it only seems fair you do too,” Emily says. It’s a subtle way to reinforce that he’s one of her kids.

Jack taps his fingers against his staff. “I don’t really need money. You don’t have to.”

“I’m aware,” Emily says calmly. “But if you’re going to be babysitting, you should get hazard pay at least.”

“Mo~om,” Jamie objects, though whether it’s to the ‘baby’ part or the ‘hazard’ part Emily can’t tell, and Jamie doesn’t elaborate.

“Really, what would I do with an allowance? Never had one before and I’ve done fine,” Jack says, slouching against his staff. Emily has seen him do it a few times now, but it still amazes her that the staff doesn’t topple over and Jack with it. Jack is clearly leaning most of his weight against the free-standing wooden staff, and yet it doesn’t move.

“You’re getting one now,” Emily says, in her ‘mom’ voice. Even Jack doesn’t fight it.

“Books,” Jamie says.

“What?” Emily asks.

“Get Jack books instead of money.” Jamie looks up to Emily’s curious expression and Jack’s somewhat stunned-mullet face. “He’s always reading my books when I get home from school.”

“Alright.” Emily considers how this should go, then says, “We’ll work out the specifics as we go along, I guess."

It ends up working like this: for every evening Emily has to work late and Jack watches the kids, he gets a book. For every snow day that Emily has to work through and he therefore has to watch the kids, he gets a book. She’s spending less on babysitters by an order of magnitude, so it’s a more than fair exchange. 

Jack has surprisingly diverse literary tastes, from children’s picture books to Russian classics to modern science fiction to any sort of poetry. He has a well-hidden bibliophilia that Emily finds endearing, though he can’t stay still for long, and he loves reading to Sophie and Jamie. (Those nights Emily thought Sophie went to bed easily and with only one story, Jack would actually come in later and read a few more. Emily starts making a list on Amazon, one book for each night.)

The only furniture they go shopping for, incidentally, is bookcases.

\--

Jack is a wonderful babysitter, managing to straddle that line between fun and responsibility. At first, knowing what little she did about the Jack Frost mythos, and adding in what Jamie’s told her, Emily isn’t sure he’ll be responsible enough. She worries that the first time he babysits her kids she’ll come back to a house full of chaos and broken crockery.

She’s somewhat shocked to walk into a quiet, clean house, the kids soundly asleep and Jack lounging on his bed reading.

“How were the kids?”

Jack shrugs and grins. “Fine. We had pasta for dinner and Sophie only asked for three stories.”

“And did you keep Jamie up?”

Jack looks offended. “He has school tomorrow.”

Emily admits to herself that she didn’t think Jack would care. Jack seems to read that in her face. He flows into a cross-legged seated position, looking serious. (The first time she’d seen Jack fly, she had been torn between teary awe at his grace and outright terror at his fearlessness. Over time, she mostly reconciles herself to the way he travels, so in the end she’s left with admiration. She’s seen trained dancers that move with less beauty than Jack.) He says, looking earnest and uncomfortable, “I mean, I know I’m all about fun and school is like the antithesis of fun—usually—but, well, Jamie needs school, he needs to do well in school to get anywhere, right? So no more keeping him up past bedtime on school nights. And we don’t really need to, anyway. We don’t need to sneak around anymore.”

Emily melts a little bit. She hears what he’s not saying. He’s a true big brother now, and it’s something he takes seriously. Emily remembers helping Jamie comfort Jack on his sister’s birthday, and realizes this is a role that Jack is not only familiar with, but enjoys. Just like his sister was one of his most precious people in colonial times, Jamie is now, and Jamie’s future is important to him.

He has a room and a home where he’s seen and accepted. He doesn’t have to sneak around adults so that his favorite people don’t get in trouble. He doesn’t have to distract or steal attention. When he wants to talk to Jamie, all he has to do is go upstairs. When he wants to talk to Emily, all he has to do is ask (or sometimes, look particularly unsure in her presence).

It’s times like these that Emily remembers that Jack’s not the teenager he appears to be, at least not only: he’s been around for three hundred years.

Emily sits down beside him and he watches her warily. She pulls him into a sideways hug, ignoring the instant of stillness that always comes before the thaw. She thinks that after three hundred years of intangibility, touch must be hard to get used to.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes. “I guess I don’t know much about you.”

And that’s true, she doesn’t. Her knowledge can be summed up succinctly: he’s a winter spirit that needs to be believed in to be seen; he was once a boy in colonial Pennsylvania; he had a younger sister named Emma whom he forgot for three centuries; and on Easter 2012 he joined up with the Guardians of Childhood to kick the Boogieman’s butt. She doesn’t know how he became Jack Frost, but she hopes he’ll tell her eventually.

Jack leans his head awkwardly on her shoulder. “I guess we should fix that, huh.”

Emily takes a deep breath and decides it’s not that late. She can afford to stay awake a little longer. She starts with a simple request: “Alright, then, Jack. Tell me about yourself.”

\--

The next morning Jack is gone, leaving only a few melting curls of frost in the shadowed corners of the room to betray his late presence. Emily worries until he shows up a few days later ready to watch the kids, sporting a sheepish smile and the lowly muttered excuse, “Feels.”

Emily has heard that word thrown around by the younger crowd—teenagers and twenty-somethings mostly—as shorthand for any strong emotion. Emily accepts it with a nod, shouts some last-minute instructions to Jamie—“Yeah, Mom, I know!”—absently wraps Jack in a one-armed hug and runs out the door to work.

On the nights she does come home to controlled chaos, well, she can excuse it. It’s almost always on the weekends anyway.

\--

Jack doesn’t strictly _need_ to eat, but he likes to. He’s missed a lot, culinarily, since he was ‘made’ in the early 1700s. (He still won’t tell her _how_ he was ‘made’. Emily can be patient, she’ll find out somehow.) Emily doesn’t really have time to cook, and it’s never been one of her passions, though she can make some mean breakfast burritos. Jack, though, gets Julia Child’s _Mastering the Art of French Cooking_ and after making sure he won’t burn the house down with the oven or chop his fingers off with a knife, Emily leaves him to it.

It’s nice, sometimes, to come home to a meal she didn’t make herself or buy from a restaurant. Thursday becomes Family Meal night and everyone pitches in, even Sophie. Much sooner than Emily expected, Jack’s improvising instead of following strict recipes. Most of the time, it’s good.

They don’t talk about the Peanut Butter Lobster Incident.

\--

With Jack a regular houseguest when he’s not out spreading winter and fun around the globe, it’s inevitable that Emily will meet other spirits. The first is the Tooth Fairy.

Though Jack had told her that all the spirits of childhood belief exist, Emily’s never considered what that means for her family. Nor does she consider the fact that the Big Four, as Jack calls them, are good friends with her surrogate son. After her encounter with Toothiana, she does consider these things.

Mostly so any future meetings don’t turn into the debacle her meeting with Tooth does.

Emily comes home to dinner on the table—Indian this time, a curry homemade by Jack—and Jamie bursting with news about a lost tooth, and how it totally isn’t Jack’s fault this time. (Emily shoots Jack what Jamie terms a ‘mom’ look, something inquiring and vaguely disapproving. Jack looks sheepish and mouths ‘sofa’.) Like always, Emily tells him to put it under his pillow and go to sleep—the Tooth Fairy doesn’t come until you fall asleep. With Jack’s confirming nod, that’s all Jamie needs to snuggle down under his covers.

Emily puts Sophie to bed (two stories and a lullaby), and then Jack retreats to his room and Emily to hers for a bit of quiet reading time. After about an hour, Emily checks all the locks on a final round, looks in on Sophie, and looks in on Jamie.

And sees a large, shadowy shape _hovering_ over her son.

“ _Get away from my son_!” Emily screams. Jamie wakes up with a confused sound. The shape above her son turns toward her suddenly, and she can make out muted greens and yellows in the faint moonlight.

Emily doesn’t think, she just grabs up Jamie’s skateboard that’s by the door and swings it like a bat. The dark shape flits upwards out of the way, jerky like a hummingbird.

A cold gust of wind heralds Jack’s arrival, and the light clicks on behind her as she’s lining up a second swing. The shape becomes a bird-like woman with iridescent green, yellow, and blue feathers covering her entire body, the buzz of wings audible though the wings themselves are only a suggestion they’re moving so fast. Her eyes are huge and lavender, her entire expression surprised.

Jack grabs the edge of the skateboard before Emily can take another swing. “Whoa whoa whoa, Emily, calm down, that’s the Tooth Fairy.” Jack gives Emily a wry look and asks, "This is a thing with you, isn't it? Trying to brain people with common household objects."

Emily stares at the woman-bird, the words not processing through her fright and adrenaline. Jack gives the board a light tug, and Emily releases it. Her muscles shiver with the desire to move. She doesn’t.

“Ah, hello?” the Tooth Fairy says. Her voice is high and sweet, uncertain.

Jack’s hand squeezes her shoulder, chill seeping through her pajamas. “Look at Jamie. He’s not scared. Take a deep breath, Emmy. It’s okay.”

Emily tears her eyes away from the intruder to examine her son. The boy’s eyes move between the Tooth Fairy—awe, excitement—and her—uncertainty. There’s no fear in his eyes. Then again, Jamie isn’t even afraid of the Boogeyman anymore, so Emily isn’t sure how good a judge he is of danger.

“Yeah, mom, relax,” Jamie assures her. He meets her eyes and smiles, clearly deciding the excitement of a personal visit by the Tooth Fairy is more important than his mother's paranoia.

Emily might not trust her son's danger-meter, but she does trust Jack. She takes a breath, in through her nose and slowly out through her mouth, wills her heartbeat to slow, and lets herself relax.

“Thanks,” Jack murmurs. He sweeps around in front of her, and she catches a grin in her peripheral vision. “Hey, Tooth! Fancy meeting you here!”

“Well, I wanted to do this one personally,” the Tooth Fairy explains. Her eyes dart past Jack to meet Emily’s. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m not used to adults seeing me.”

Emily takes another calming breath. “Jack didn’t tell you I could?”

“He did…” the Tooth Fairy trails off, looking apologetically at Jack. It’s clear she hadn’t believed him. Emily sees the minute slump of his shoulders, but she isn’t sure if the Tooth Fairy does.

Jack drifts to the side, the cool brush of his wind a comfort. “Emily, meet Toothiana, also called the Tooth Fairy. Tooth, meet Emily Bennett.”

“Nice to meet you,” Tooth says. “I’m really, really sorry for scaring you.”

“It’s okay,” Emily says. “No harm, no foul. Nice to meet you.”

“Tooth Fairy?” Jamie pipes up. “Did you really come for my tooth?”

“Of course I did, sweetheart,” the Tooth Fairy says, twisting to smile at him. Her expression softens into gentle affection, a very motherly expression. Something in Emily releases. This woman isn’t a threat to her son.

Jamie reaches under his pillow to check his ‘loot.’ Emily clears her throat and when Jamie looks over, shakes her head with a disapproving look. That would not be polite. Jamie pouts but waits.

“You have very nice teeth,” Tooth compliments Jamie, patting his head. Jamie looks a bit disgruntled at being treated like either a very small child or a dog. The Tooth Fairy turns back to Emily. “You really shouldn’t drink so much coffee, Mrs. Bennett. It’s very bad for your teeth.”

“…Right.” Emily can’t think of anything else to say, especially because it’s something her dentist says every checkup. But coffee is her lifeline, she can’t give it up.

“Oh!” Tooth perks. “I’m sorry, I’m behind. Bye, Jamie. It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Bennett. I’ll see you later, Jack. Bye!”

And with no more than that, the Tooth Fairy zooms out— _through_ the window.

“How…?” Emily stutters.

“Magic. Don’t think about it too hard,” Jack consoles.

\--

She’s watching Sophie fall asleep one night when she sees the golden dreamsand enter through the window like the glass isn’t even there. This is not the first time she’s seen the Sandman’s dreamsand at work, but she enjoys it every time. She knows not to touch it after the first time she woke up in the morning stretched on the end of Sophie’s bed, the curious five-year-old poking her nose and giggling.

This night, Jack floats in quietly on a wisp of wind. He puts his finger to his lips and beckons her out of the room. Curious, Emily follows him into her own master bedroom.

“Sandy’s nearby. Do you want to meet him?”

The Sandman is the only one Jack’s never spoken of with bitterness or disappointment. At some point or another, when talking about how Santa Claus brings presents every Christmas (to everyone but him), how the Easter Bunny paints eggs every Easter (for everyone but him), how the Tooth Fairy collects teeth and leaves a little present (but he has no teeth to lose), Jack has expressed frustration that they never talked to him except for that one Easter Bunnymund yelled at him. Not once for three hundred years.

But the Sandman, though they never met directly, has always brought joy. Jack loves to play with the dreamsand, watch it make golden shapes and dance between the lovely strands. And through no fault or merit of his own, the Sandman is the only one who didn’t betray Jack on Easter 2012. (Jack doesn’t see it as a betrayal, but Emily certainly does. They other Guardians are presumably adults, and they couldn’t take five minutes to ask Jack _where he was_ and _what actually happened?_ Hadn’t they ever heard the phrase “assuming makes an ass of u and me”?)

So yes, Emily wants to meet the Sandman. She wants very much to say ‘thank you.’

With a grin, Jack flies off through the open window.

It’s not long before Emily spies a large golden shape moving towards her house. It resolves itself into a giant eagle, á la Tolkien, and beside it flies the smaller shape of Jack Frost. They come to a stop right outside her window, the sand-eagle shrinking and reforming into a small cloud with a small man atop it.

He’s the same golden as his sand, his robe glittering in the lamp- and moonlight. His eyes are warm, his nose broad and squashed, his lips stretched into a happy smile. He’s pudgy, but it’s a soft roundness that gives him the look of a beloved plush toy. Emily likes him immediately.

“Emily Bennett, may I introduce Sanderson Mansnoozie, also known as The Sandman,” Jack says grandly, bowing and sweeping one hand toward the Sandman. “Sandy, this is Emily Bennett, hardworking superwoman and bestest mom ever to our favorite troublemakers.”

Emily flushes a little at the praise. Sandy raises an eyebrow at Jack, miming throwing a snowball. Jack grins and shrugs with mock humility. “Our _other_ favorite troublemakers.”

The Sandman faces Emily once more, summoning a bowler hat out of his sand and sweeping a low, fancy bow. He looks up and winks.

Emily can’t help the giggle. She doesn’t know how to curtsy, so she bows back. “Oh, no, the pleasure is mine, Mr. Mansnoozie.”

Sandy straightens and shakes an admonishing finger at her, and above his head forms a pen scribbling out a long line, which then mostly disappears, leaving only the front portion. 

“Sanderson?” Emily guesses.

Again the Sandman shakes his head and mimes _smaller_ with his hands.

“Sandy?” Emily repeats Jack’s name for him. Sandy nods enthusiastically, giving her two thumbs up. Emily returns the smile. “Nice to meet you, Sandy. Please come in.”

Sandy tips his head in agreement/acknowledgement, and floats in through the open window. Jack zips in after him, a wide grin almost splitting his face in two. This meeting is already going leagues better than the impromptu one with Tooth; it's clear Emily likes Sandy and vice versa. Sandy settles on the foot of Emily’s bed, Jack perches on the footboard, and Emily drags over her desk chair to face them.

Sandy creates a series of images: an eye, which turns to a side-view and seems to look at a snowflake, then a question mark.

“Yes,” Emily confirms the rather redundant question. “I can see Jack.”

The Sandman creates a ticking clock in front of the question mark.

“Since early October, so two months? Wow, it hasn’t been long at all, has it?” Emily says, wondering. It feels like Jack’s been with them for longer—it feels like he belongs.

The Sandman forms another question—what does she do?—and Emily settles in for as long a conversation as the Sandman can afford. She’s always loved charades.

Jack eventually gets bored. He tells her he’ll see her later, then zooms out the window. Sandy looks at the sky, shakes his head and taps his wrist where a watch would sit on a human. Above his head is a sleeping child with ‘z’s coming from its mouth.

Emily nods her understanding. She too has work tomorrow and she has to go to sleep. But first, she says, “Sandman.”

Sandy looks at her questioningly.

“Thank you.”

Sandy tilts his head, above his head forming the image of a dog with its head tilted in the exact same way—curiosity. Emily continues, “I don’t know how much you know of the centuries,” and the thought still makes her shudder, “before Jack became a Guardian, but you always brought him happiness when he needed it. So thank you.”

The Guardian of Dreams looks puzzled but pleased, making an ‘x’ with his arms over his chest. No thanks necessary.

\--

Emily comes home almost bursting with good news. The moment she’s in the door she yells, “Jamie, Sophie, Jack—I’m home!”

“Hi Mom,” she hears in stereo from the kitchen, almost overriding Jack’s, “Hey Emmy.”

Emily nearly floats into the kitchen. Jack raises an eyebrow at her smile and grins back. “What’s got you in such a good mood?”

“I got promoted!” Emily exclaims.

Jack looks happy, but Jamie immediately frowns. “Does that mean you’ll have to work more?”

“Oh, no, Jamie,” Emily assures, sweeping over to his chair to pull him into a hug. “It means I have more regular hours, and I’m getting paid more. I’ll actually be around more often!”

Jamie and Sophie cheer, and Sophie starts a chant of ‘ice cream ice cream’ that Jamie takes up with enthusiasm. Emily is the only one to notice how Jack’s face falls for a moment before he pastes on a smile and joins in the chant.

Emily laughs at her children and goes to get the requested celebratory ice cream, though she makes a mental note to interrogate Jack later. The spirit boy seems to enjoy the small party as much as Jamie and Sophie, but Emily can read the hesitation in his movements. He’s quiet when Jamie and Sophie start talking about all the things they want to do now that she’ll be able to spend more time with them. When it comes time for bed, he retreats into his room.

Sophie is still cheerfully oblivious, but Jamie notices. Emily promises to talk to Jack and see what’s wrong. Jamie, confident in his mother’s ability to make almost anything better, goes to bed content.

When Emily finally knocks and lets herself into Jack’s room, she finds him pacing and swinging his staff around, freezing random things—the legs of his bed, a patch of floor, a shelf of books—and looking sad. He avoids her eyes, and at the sound of the door clicking shut, starts talking.

“Hey, look, Montreal could use some snow, so I’m going to head out. I should be back in a few days,” Jack says, but instead of moving purposefully towards the window he only meanders.

“Montreal could always use snow,” Emily says. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Jack says. “Winter’s starting up in the northern hemisphere again. I probably won’t be around as much as I was. Good thing you can spend some more time at home this winter, huh? And just in time for Christmas!”

It’s early December, pretty firmly ‘winter’ by any northern hemisphere standards, and Burgess is known for its short autumns and early winters anyway. Jack’s excuse is a blatant lie. She takes a stab in the dark. “You know Jamie always wants you here.”

Jack grins, brighter at the mention of his favorite person. “Don’t worry, I’ll visit a lot.”

“Jack, you don’t have to _visit_. You _live_ here,” Emily says. Jack’s smile freezes. Emily realizes what the problem is. “You belong here. Did you think I only wanted you around because you watch my kids? You’re family, Jack. You’re my _son_.”

Jack looks completely lost. He has no idea what to do with that declaration. Emily does, though. She gently takes his staff and leans it by the bed, then pulls him into her arms. She kisses his temple. “I can’t make it legal, but in all the ways that matter you’re my son. I love you.”

Jack chokes on a sob, and cold droplets soak into her shoulder. Emily lets him cry and tries to hold him as tightly as he’s clutching her. 

\--

Dear ~~Santa~~ Mr. St. North,

I don’t know if this will reach you, if the magic only reacts to children or to everyone who believes. Maybe if I believe hard enough that you will see this you will. I’m not writing to you today for myself or my children—my children by blood, I mean—but for Jack. He looks up to you, so I think you would be the right person to ask this from.

Jack Frost is over three hundred years old. I am thirty-seven. He lived long before I was born and he’ll live long after I die. Long after Jamie and Sophie die—longer even than her grandchildren should Sophie have any. 

So this is my Christmas wish—my last Christmas wish: take care of Jack. 

Please, take care of him. No matter how many years he lives he will always be eternally seventeen. He needs a family. He needs love. He needs to belong. And he needs someone to believe in him. Please give him these things when I no longer can.

Sincerely,  
Emily Bennett

P.S. Apologize for Easter 2012. That was not his fault.

\--

“Both Tooth and Sandy seemed surprised that I could see you. Is me seeing you against some sort of rules?” Emily asks on another day, after the younger children have gone to bed.

“Nah,” Jack denies, lounging on the back of the couch with his leg swinging idly, just brushing the floor. Sometimes the boy’s sense of balance is obscene. “Just adults don’t normally believe enough to see us. It’s a shock.”

“I only do because you saved me from falling down the stairs,” Emily points out. Jack makes a ‘hmm’ noise. Emily asks a question that’s been plaguing her since the beginning: “Why did you?”

“Jamie and Sophie need you,” he answers lightly. Jack reaches up with his staff and frosts patterns onto the ceiling. They both watch the ferns bloom outward until the pattern covers more than half the living room ceiling. She wonders if she’ll eventually get water stains or mold in the shape of frost ferns. Hopefully not.

Emily thinks that’s the only answer she’s getting when Jack continues, almost sheepish, “Remember I said you sound like my mom? It was instinctive. I didn’t think.”

Emily thinks she can hear, underneath the words, _I need you too._

“Thank you,” Emily says softly. Jack hums again.

“No big.”

It’s a quiet night, snow blanketing the town and muffling even the normal night-time sounds. Emily has Christmas music playing from an old vinyl record player, but it’s so soft she can barely hear it. It’s the more contemplative songs, anyhow, _Silent Night_ and _The Wexford Carol_. The world is sleeping and Jack’s relaxed.

“How did you become Jack Frost?” Emily asks.

Jack purses his lips, though he doesn’t tense up. “The Moon chose me.”

“The Moon’s a rock,” Emily deadpans.

“The Man in the Moon, then,” Jack corrects. Emily isn’t surprised that there’s actually a man on the moon. Maybe he has a pet rabbit?

“And how did he do that, Jackson Overland?” Emily says. It’s a gentle question, but Jack jerks at the name anyway.

“Magic,” he answers lightly. After a moment, he swings his leg up and over the back of the couch until he’s sitting up, feet resting on the cushions. “You’ve guessed, haven’t you?”

“Maybe,” Emily says noncommittally. She knows the facts—bits and pieces enough to form a partial picture. She wants the rest of it. The reasons. The emotions. 

She wants to be wrong.

“When Jamie looked up my sister. You had to have found stuff on me,” Jack says.

Emily nods. It took her an embarrassingly long time to put the pieces together, but in her defense she’s a busy woman with a lot vying for her time and attention. “Jackson Overland, born 1695 in one of the early Pennsylvanian settlements, which would eventually become Burgess. Mother Elizabeth, father John, younger sister Emma. Died 1712 of drowning.” Emily takes a deep breath. Jack watches her with something like sympathy. She asks hoarsely, “Did you really drown?”

“Yeah,” Jack whispers. He looks at his staff, hands clenching and unclenching around the aged wood. “I…don’t remember it, really. Falling through the ice, sure, hearing Emma call my name, but then it’s blank until I wake up like,” he gestures at himself, “this.”

“How—how did it happen? If you don’t mind telling me…”

Jack’s still looking down, but he’s obviously not seeing the present. His eyes are unfocussed, lips turned down in a faint frown. Emily thinks she’s overstepped her bounds, and that Jack won’t answer or will flee as he occasionally does when he gets uncomfortable with people. 

“I took Emma ice skating,” he says finally. “She’d been bugging me all winter to teach her and mom finally said yes. But it was too late in the winter, and the ice was too thin. It started cracking under her. I managed to get her onto thicker ice—I made a game of it,” Jack says with a small smile. “Hopscotch. I took three steps to my staff, and urged her towards me. On three, I hooked my staff around her waist and tossed her.” He mimics it with his staff now, darting out and swinging around, nearly knocking one of the lamps off a side table before he checks himself. “But we, we kind of switched places. I was on the thin, cracking ice, and I fell through. It was midafternoon when I went under.”

“Jack…” Emily wants to hug him, wants to tuck his head under her chin and breathe in the winter-sharp scent of his hair, wrap her arms around his slim but solid shoulders. When she had asked, this is exactly what she’d wanted to know, and exactly what she’d wanted him to deny.

“It was night when I came up—broke through the ice, the light of the moon shining all around me. I don’t know if it was the same day or not. It was cold, and dark.” Jack pauses, then admits, “I was scared.”

Emily reaches over and puts her hand on his knee. He looks startled, meeting her eyes with his own wide blue. Then he grins a bit and takes her hand in his. “It’s okay. It was a long time ago.”

“Over three hundred years,” Emily murmurs. She keeps coming back to that point in her head, and how little she really knows about that time. More than the Guardians, she thinks, but it’s a hollow comfort.

“Yeah.” Jack slides down the back of the couch until he’s cross-legged on the cushions, staff over his knees and taking up the whole length of the couch. “I didn’t remember anything: my sister, why I was in the lake, and why the first thing I reached for when I touched the iced-over surface was my staff. My dad made it for me, you know, when I grew old enough to shepherd one of the flocks,” he adds in an absent aside. “I only knew my name because the Man in the Moon told me. But man—the first time I saw frost bloom from the end of my staff…that was _so cool_.” The smile that overtakes his features at the memory is young and innocent and excited, and so, so happy. Emily aches for that long-past Jack Frost, so unaware of the loneliness and heartache to come. So happy for such a small, beautiful thing.

“And then I was _flying_! The wind swept me right off the ice and all I could see was darkness and stars and the moon. I know why people are so obsessed with flight—there’s nothing better than flying.” There’s a fierce joy in his eyes. Then the light dims a bit, and he sighs. “Same night, I found out no one could see me.”

Emily bites the inside of her lip and decides the couch looks too big and empty with just Jack and his staff. She tips it up and slides under it, reaching around Jack and pulling him against her side. Jack makes a half-startled half-pleased sound. It’s a reminder that no matter the past, someone can see (and touch and hug) him now.

There’s a long silence. They listen to the calming strains of _What Child is This?_ Emily thinks the story is over, at least for tonight, when Jack says, “I thought I was a ghost. Well, for the first few years I didn’t know what I was. Not the same thing as the people living in the villages, that’s for sure. But then I heard a sermon on devils and ghosts and witches, and thought I must be a ghost. It wasn’t till I ventured farther west and met Raven that I learned I was a spirit and that the only way people would see me was if they believed in me.”

“I’m sorry,” Emily says. 

“Nah,” Jack sighs. “I mean, it was hard. But things are better now, and that’s what matters, right?”

“Was Raven your first friend?” Emily asks. Oh, the number of mythology books she’s read over lunch breaks to try and familiarize herself with Jack’s offhand mentions of his pre-Guardian friends.

“Yeah, I guess he was. I mean, I have friends from before,” Jack says. “Raven, Rabbit—that’s Brer Rabbit, not the Easter Kangaroo—Loki, Puck. But I always wanted the kids to see me. The others didn’t really understand that. I didn’t know why I was different back then.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Emily says.

Jack shakes his head, soft hair brushing against her jaw. “I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone. The Guardiands haven’t asked, and it’s not really a conversation you can have with a twelve-year-old.”

“Almost-thirteen-year-old,” Emily corrects, in the same tone Jamie uses whenever someone brings up his age. Usually Emily, when she’s telling him that the movie is PG- _13_ , so no, he can’t go.

Jack snorts. “He turned twelve a month ago. How is that ‘almost’ thirteen?”

“Closer than eleven,” Emily points out.

“Hah,” Jack huffs. Emily can practically hear him roll his eyes, but his tone is fond: “Kids.”

Emily elbows him gently. “Then what are you, Old Man Winter?”

Jack laughs. “Nope. That guy’s a kill-joy if anyone is.”

Emily pauses, shifts her mindset. “There’s really an Old Man Winter?”

“Yup.”

“Of course there is,” Emily mutters.

\--

The house is quiet. With two active children-by-blood and one mischievous child-by-choice, this is a rare state of affairs, and it’s apt that the night in question is Christmas Eve. Jamie and Sophie are tucked up snug in their beds—perhaps even with visions of sugar plums dancing in their heads, if they know what sugar plums are—with the sure knowledge that St. North soon will be here.

Jack Frost is riding with the Big Man this year to give a white Christmas to all those who can have one. This is a duty, he says with a grin, that he’s undertaken every year since he joined. Then Santa takes the rest of the day off, and the Guardians’ Christmas celebration is December 26th. The Bennett family celebration has been moved to later in the day so Jack can be with them.

(“All in favor, say ‘aye’,” Emily says imperiously.

“Aye!” Jamie cries out enthusiastically.

“Arrgggg, pirates!” Sophie cries with equal fervor. Sophie is into pirates right now, so a plastic sword and tricorn hat have often joined her fairy wings. 

“You’re supposed to say ‘aye’,” Jamie scolds lightly.

“You really—" Jack tries to interject.

“Aye aye!” Sophie agrees.

“That’s three ‘ayes’, motion carried,” Emily declares. “Christmas Day won’t start until Jack arrives.”

“You really don’t have to do that,” Jack finishes his protest.

Jamie gives him a disdainful look to his sister’s insistent, "Yes we do yes we do!" 

Emily raises her eyebrows. “Are you trying to impede the course of democracy?”

“That’s not…that’s not how it works,” Jack protests weakly.

“Democracy: rule of the majority,” Emily says. “The majority ruled. Can’t go against that.”

“’s legal,” Sophie says.

“ _Il_ -legal, Soph,” Jamie corrects. “Yeah, Jack, no choice. You’ll just have to spend Christmas with us.”

“Didn’t you know?” Emily adds. “That room I gave you was really a life sentence.”

For a moment, Jack’s speechless. Then he grins, wide and happy. He says to the children, “Well, in that case, I’ll just have to come _reeeeaaaallly_ late. Maybe dinnertime?”

Above Jamie’s and Sophie’s protests—“No no no no not fair Jaaaackkk”—“That’s not something you joke about, Jack! It’s presents!”—Jack winks at Emily.)

With the exception of the Christmas tree lights and the small table lamp next to her, all the lights are off. A cup of tea is cooling by her elbow, and she’s reading a book. It’s a good book, one she’s been meaning to get to, but with the hectic pace of the holiday she hasn’t had a spare moment until now. She doesn’t notice the clock tick over to midnight…

…but she certainly does notice the puff of soot from her chimney and the giant black boots that land in her fireplace.

She stares, wordless. Santa Claus really does come down the chimney.

He wedges himself out of the cramped space somehow—Emily’s going to ascribe that to magic, and not think about it, for the sake of her sanity—and obviously doesn’t see her at first. He gives his bag a tug until it too pops out of the fireplace, and then stands to his full height. 

Nicholas St. North is like a small mountain. He’s tall, definitely over six feet, and broad all over. A black-furred red coat only emphasizes the ridiculous width of his shoulders. Emily doesn’t understand how he came down her chimney—he’s at least twice the size of it.

He looks towards the tree, and Emily knows the moment he sees her. He freezes up a little, eyes going wide with surprise. Emily probably doesn’t look much better. There’s a wind-stung redness to his nose and cheeks, his long white beard falls down to the wide belt around his middle, and his eyes are blue. 

Emily takes a deep breath, sets her book aside, and stands to greet him. She debates over using Nicholas St. North or Santa Claus. “Hello, Mr. St. North. I’m—”

“Emily Bennett!” North bursts out, a Russian brogue edging the words. He smiles wide and his eyes are bright in the light from the Christmas tree. “Jamie and Sophie’s mother! Jack has said many good things.”

“I—ah, thank you,” Emily stutters. She tugs down her pajama top—a Christmas-y green and red plaid flannel—with nervous fingers. She smiles. “Jack’s told me very good things about you too. It’s nice to meet you.”

“And you, Emily,” he says warmly. He drops the big red bag holding all the presents and wraps her in his ginormous arms. He’s very warm and he smells of cinnamon and apples and pine and baking things. He smells like Christmas. His deep voice rumbles in his chest under her ear, “Thank you for giving Jack a home.”

He releases her. She rearranges her pajamas, saying, “How could I not?”

“You are a good woman, Emily Bennett,” North says. His voice is still low, affectionate almost. “You were a good girl, too. Always on nice list.”

“Even when I punched Brad Conroy in fifth grade?” Emily can’t help but ask. 

“Even so. Some boys need a reminder that girls are not wilting flowers, no?” North says with a twinkle. Emily can’t help the grin. “And did you not get your red bicycle?”

“That was you?” Emily asks. Of course, back when she was ten she had believed in Santa whole-heartedly, but after she’d lost that belief she had wondered where her parents got the money for it.

“That was me,” Santa confirms. “I get every letter sent to me, and it was the thing you wanted most then. Not so now, I think.”

“I hoped you’d get my letter,” Emily says. “I don’t want you to think I’m, um, chastising you,” though she had been a little, in the post-script, “or sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong, but I won’t be around forever, and Jack might be.”

Some of the jolliness fades from his expression, though not the warmth. “And we have not treated Jack so well in the past.”

“He thinks of you as friends—I think you might even be a father-figure to him,” Emily says. North looks touched at the thought. She resolutely does not mention her own ambivalence towards the majority of the Guardians. “But…he’s my son, in my heart if not by blood. I want to be sure he’s taken care of. He doesn’t acknowledge it, would deny it if asked, but he needs to be taken care of.”

North nods. “He does. Thank you for trusting us. It should not be something that needs be asked, but it is good Jack has someone who loves him enough to do so.”

On the subject of her letter, Emily’s a little curious. “ _Have_ you asked him about that Easter?”

North turns sheepish, almost embarrassed. “Is busy season for me. I have not yet had time, and Jack does not come around so much in the lead-up to Christmas.”

Emily shakes her head. Really, _someone_ should have asked him a while ago. It’s been almost two years since the event. She presses, “But you will ask him?”

“I promise,” North nods. He looks curious. “Why is it so important?”

“It’s not my story to tell,” Emily demurs. “And anyway, it’s Christmas Eve. Don’t you have something to be doing?”

North says something startled and profane-sounding in Russian. (Now there's an experience: Santa, cursing.) "Yes, I must be going. Jack will be waiting with the sleigh. He is spending Christmas Day with you, yes? Good! Have a merry Christmas, Emily Bennett.”

North digs out a few presents and adds them to the piles already under the tree. Then he swings the bag over his shoulder and disappears up the chimney.

“Merry Christmas, Santa!” Emily calls after him.

\--

“Hey, everybody, I’m home!” Emily calls. Dead silence meets her and she frowns in concern. “Jamie? Sophie? Jack?”

“I’m in my room,” Jamie’s sullen voice answers her from upstairs.

That doesn’t sound good.

Emily hooks her keys on the key ring by the door, hangs up her winter coat, tosses her purse and work jacket on the couch, and kicks off her heels. Thus fortified, she pads up the stairs and into her son’s room.

“Hey, Jamie. Where’s your sister?”

“She’s in her room,” Jamie says. He’s curled up in bed under the covers, despite the comfortable temperature inside, pretending to read. His eyes are suspiciously shiny and fixed.

“And Jack? I thought it was his night to babysit.”

“I’m not a baby,” Jamie mutters.

“I know. It’s just a phrase,” Emily says softly. She prompts, “Jack?”

“I dunno. I’m not his keeper.”

That doesn’t sound like her sons, either of them. Jack always told Jamie where he was going, and when he didn’t outright say Jamie usually asked. And Jack always tried to let her know if he couldn’t make a scheduled night. Emily says slowly, “No, you’re not. But Jack usually tells you first if he can’t make it or if something’s bothering him enough to stay away.”

“Not lately,” Jamie says, scrunching further into a ball. “You guys are always talking. He never tells me anything anymore!”

“Of course he does,” Emily objects. “He’s your brother—”

_“No he’s not!”_

Emily falls silent, startled by Jamie’s vehemence. Jamie pulls the covers over his head and she can hear his hitching breaths through the fabric, trying not to cry. Emily breathes a deep sigh and sits at his side, running her hand over where she approximates his shoulder to be. Mediating a fight between her sons is not how she wanted to spend this evening. She had hoped for a nice meal courtesy of Jack and then maybe a relatively quiet night spent convincing Sophie that no, they really didn’t need to watch _Hop_ again.

“What happened, Jamie?” 

“Nothing.”

“Obviously something happened.”

“It’s nothing.”

“James Cameron Bennett…” Emily threatens, starting to become exasperated. She’s intimately acquainted with the it’s-nothing-but-it’s-really-something trick from her own teenage years, and that’s not going to fly.

“He was talking about the book he was reading and I got mad.”

Emily tries to remember what book she had bought Jack last. Something fairly innocuous about Native American mythologies, “just for the laughs,” according to Jack. He’s acquainted with some Native American trickster gods, and likes to laugh at how wrong mortals’ mythologies are. “Did Jack say something mean?”

Jamie is quiet for a bit, then reluctantly says, “No.”

Emily waits.

“You got him a book but I have to buy my own,” Jamie mutters. 

Alright. Closer to the real issue, but not quite there yet. Emily replies, “You get money for your allowance, which you can spend however you want. Jack gets books, because he doesn’t have much use for money.”

In fact, the scheme was Jamie’s idea in the first place, if she remembers correctly. So why is it suddenly a big deal now?

“And then you two go book shopping, and he’s always asking for recommendations, and you’re always talking about grown-up things,” Jamie continues, voice rising near the end. He quiets abruptly, and the covers go tighter as if Jamie’s drawing them closer around him. His quiet voice is muffled by the fabric, but Emily can still understand him. “You said you’d have more time for me and Sophie, but you only spend time with Jack.”

Emily reviews the last couple weeks and guiltily admits Jamie has a point. Emily’s been trying to spend more time with Jack, trying to show him he belongs. Trying to make him feel welcomed and comfortable and loved. In her single-mindedness, she might have been neglecting her other two children a little bit. Emily herself might have been feeling a little uncertain since Jack told her how he became Jack Frost, which certainly didn’t help.

She sighs and lays down beside the Jamie-shaped lump. “You’re right. I’m sorry, baby.”

“’m not a baby,” Jamie objects again.

“No. You’re my grown-up son, aren’t you?” Emily asks softly, mournfully. It’s not quite true, but it’s close enough. He’s twelve already—almost a _teen_ —and she still remembers so well looking into his scrunched red wailing face and thinking there was no more beautiful infant than the one she was holding right then.

“Nu-uh,” Jamie denies. He pushes the comforter down and turns to face her, slotting neatly into her arms. Not so big yet that he can’t curl up under her chin. He admits, “I miss you, Mom.”

“I’m sorry,” Emily says again. “You know I love you, right?”

“Yeah,” Jamie says into her shoulder.

“I’ll always love you, no matter what.”

“I know.”

She lets the silence drift, content to hold her son and comfort him. But there’s the matter of the fight, and her other son.

“Jamie, what did you say to Jack?” Emily asks quietly. Jamie curls tighter against her. “Jamie?”

“I did something bad, Mom,” Jamie whispers. Now the anger and hurt is fading, guilt over whatever happened is setting in. “I didn’t mean to.”

Emily’s stomach clenches. “I know, sweetheart. I know you didn’t mean it. What happened?”

Jamie doesn’t answer. His breath starts hitching and pausing again, like he’s going to cry, but he doesn’t.

“Jamie?”

“I said he wasn’t really my brother and he wasn’t really family and he didn’t really belong here and he should just leave us alone ‘cause we don’t need him,” Jamie says all in a rush. And then the tears fall, turning quickly to sobs, the kind of sobs that are hard and loud and ugly and that you can’t breathe through. Emily rides them out, making soothing shushing sounds, whispering nonsense, heart breaking for both of her boys.

She may have taken Jack in, but it was Jamie who saw him first, who believed in him. Jamie who touched him and laughed with him and threw snowballs and made snowmen, who shared his books and listened to Jack’s stories. Jack’s bond with Jamie went beyond brothers; they might have been soulmates. To hear Jamie say those things must have wounded Jack dearly.

Jamie’s sobs taper off. “I dih-didn’t meah-hean it,” he stutters. “I-hi didn’t. ‘m sorr-rhy.”

“I know, Jamie,” Emily says. She wipes the tear trails from Jamie’s cheeks. “But I’m not the one you need to apologize to.”

Jamie sniffles and nods.

“First thing when Jack gets back,” Emily says. Jamie nods again.

“Am I grounded?”

“No,” Emily decides. “But no allowance until you apologize to Jack.”

Jamie doesn’t say anything. Emily knows from experience that when you’re feeling guilty, sometimes a light punishment is worse than the harshest sentence. And Jamie already knows he’s in the wrong.

Emily hums lullabies until Jamie falls asleep.

\--

Days turn into a week, then two. Jack doesn’t come. Emily has to call in reserve sitters to cover the weekends Jack usually takes; worse, though, is the pervasive worry for Jack’s well-being.

Jamie walks around slump-shouldered. His friends try to cheer him up, but the moment they leave, the smile slips off his face. Sophie keeps asking when Jack’s coming back, and Emily doesn’t know. Jamie’s expression always gets a little sadder when Sophie asks.

Three weeks and two days into Jack’s absence, Emily comes home to a frazzled babysitter and a screaming daughter. The sitter explains that Sophie wanted Jack to put her to bed—only Jack—and when that didn’t happen, refused to go to sleep. The sitter’s further attempts only sparked a tantrum. 

Emily pays the sitter, who lights out of the house like a bat out of hell, and trudges up the stairs to calm her unruly offspring.

Sophie doesn’t want to be soothed. Eventually she cries herself out, managing between hiccupping breaths, “Want Jack.”

Emily sighs, worried and tired and drained. Honestly, she just wants to go to sleep herself, and hope tomorrow Jack miraculously appears. “I know. I miss him too.”

“Jack reads _Country Bunny_ best,” Sophie sniffles.

Jamie has been lingering by the door since Sophie started quieting. Emily raises her eyebrows, but the moment their eyes meet, Jamie ducks out of sight. His eyes had gleamed with unshed tears in the low light of Sophie’s bedside lamp. But Emily can only deal with one distraught child at a time tonight, so she lets Jamie go and comforts her daughter.

Sophie snuggles into her, head resting on Emily’s stomach, curled into a ball instead of spread-eagled like she usually sleeps. Emily runs her fingers through her daughter’s perpetually messy hair. She hums in time with her slow strokes. Finally, Sophie uncurls, relaxing more into a sprawl. Emily moves her head carefully onto the pillow, smooths the blanket over her shoulder, and gives her forehead a kiss. She turns off the bedside lamp with a sigh.

She takes a moment to lean her head against the wall. She hopes Jack is okay. She hopes the other Guardians are taking care of him, and that he’s bringing wintry joy wherever he is. She hopes he’ll come back soon.

She goes into Jamie’s room. The lights are off and he’s pretending to sleep. Emily bends over, pushes his hair away from his forehead to give him a kiss. He doesn’t move a muscle, stubborn. Emily stands, lets her hand linger, thumb brushing over his brow.

“Goodnight, Jamie.”

Jamie doesn’t answer, so Emily takes a deep breath and leaves the room. She has to go into work tomorrow early, but in exchange she gets out earlier, too. She’ll be home around the time Jamie gets out of school and Sophie out of daycare, so they’ll make an afternoon of it. It’s Thursday, and Thursdays are still Family Nights, even with one member missing. Maybe she can make her kids a little less miserable; maybe she can make herself a little less miserable, too.

\--

It’s a little over a month before Jack returns.

Emily is in the kitchen washing dinner dishes when she hears a rapid _taptaptap_ at the window. Jack hovers outside, and in her rush to let him in, Emily almost drops the plate in her hands. Cold winter air rushes in when she swings the window wide—hopefully the kids in the living room won’t investigate the sudden chill too soon. Emily wants to speak with him before he’s buried in children.

“Jack! You’re back! Come in, come in,” Emily urges. 

A dot of brilliant color draws her attention to her left, slightly out of her direct line of sight. At first she thinks it’s a hummingbird, but that makes no sense in February in Pennsylvania. Emily amends her thought to bird-woman, or at least bird-girl. This must be Baby Tooth; with the gem-like plumage it’s not hard to connect this tiny fairy to the Queen she’s already met.

“Hi, Emily,” Jack says. He finally pulls himself through the window. Emily beckons Baby Tooth in before shutting the pane. Baby Tooth shivers and flits over to the oven, still warm-ish from dinner. 

Jack himself doesn’t move far from his point of quickest egress, holding his staff close to his body, toes not quite touching the floor. His whole bearing screams ‘uncertain’. Emily conversely takes heart from this: if he didn’t still trust her, he would be all loud bravado. 

Emily’s having none of that, though. She pulls him into a tight hug. Jack is very cold against her warm skin, and very rigid. He stays tense long after he would normally have relaxed. Despite his discomfort, Emily feels relief flood through her veins. He’s solid and whole and unharmed, and now that he’s back they can work on mending the invisible hurts.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Emily murmurs into his hair, giving him a tight squeeze and then letting him go. A few tears fall down her cheeks.

“Hey, of course I am,” Jack immediately reassures, looking part uncomfortable boy confronted with feelings and part alarmed at her tears. His hand makes an abortive movement towards her, but he draws himself back in. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know,” Emily says, wiping the tears away. “But I was worried.”

“Why?” Jack looks honestly at a loss. “It’s not like I’m all alone.”

Anymore. Like he was for so long. Emily is glad for the indirect confirmation that he was with the Guardians during his absence. Still. “I’m your mother. I’m allowed to worry.”

The retort slips from her lips with easy familiarity, a refrain she’s often taken with Jamie when he complains over her ‘mother-henning’. Jack, though, goes wide-eyed and still. He still doesn’t quite know what to do with ‘family’. “I don’t know if I’ve said it before, but that’s how I think of you. You’re my son.”

It’s a sentiment she’s affirmed before, but she doesn’t mind the repetition.

“Already?” Jack manages weakly. It has only been four months, after all. He’s not out of line for asking.

“Yes,” Emily confirms. She hesitantly adds, “Is that alright?”

“I…guess,” Jack says haltingly. “Yeah. I mean, we’re family, right?”

“Right,” Emily assures. 

Then there’s a loud explosion from the television in the next room. They both startle, the solemn mood broken a bit, and Emily remembers the boy who has been waiting a rather long time to say sorry. “Jamie and Sophie are in the living room. I’m sure they’d like to welcome you home.”

“I guess,” Jack repeats unsurely. He flinches suddenly and rubs at his shoulder, glaring at Baby Tooth. The little fairy stares at him crossly, her arms crossed over her chest. “What was that for?”

Baby Tooth cheeps imperiously, making a ‘shoo’ motion with her hands in the direction of the living room. Jack frowns. Baby Tooth flits down and pokes Jack with her nose—beak? Jack flinches away from her and, not coincidentally, towards the doorway.

“Fine,” Jack grumbles.

Emily watches in some amusement as a creature not more than four inches tall essentially bullies Jack into the next room.

The winter spirit takes a deep breath, then announces cheerfully, “Hey guys, guess who’s back?”

“JACK!” Sophie cries. Emily steps into the doorway just in time to see Sophie barrel into Jack’s legs and cling. “Jack Jack Jack Jack!”

Emily looks at the small fairy who has come to hover by her shoulder. “You brought him back, didn’t you?”

Baby Tooth nods and shrugs.

“Heya, Soph,” Jack greets with a laugh, prying her arms from around his legs and swinging her up into the air. Sophie screeches out a laugh. When Jack settles her against his hip, she wraps her arms around his neck and lands a smacking kiss on his cheek.

“Missed you,” she says softly.

“Missed you, too,” Jack says just as softly.

Emily asks Baby Tooth in undertone, “Was he alright?”

Again Baby Tooth shrugs, then gives a decisive nod and points to herself. 

“You were with him?” Emily questions. The fairy nods again. “And the other Guardians, too?”

Baby Tooth’s chirp is all the confirmation Emily needs, and she turns her attention back to the children before her.

Jamie stands in front of Jack, fidgeting and restless. His shoulders are bowed inward, chin dipped, lips pressed into a straight line. He’s the very picture of misery. Once Jack has finished his reunion with Sophie, he sets her down (she clings limpet-like to his knees) and looks at Jamie.

“Hey, Jamie,” Jack finally says, neutral.

“Jack,” Jamie replies, voice cracking half-way through the word. “I—” He swallows, and tears build in his eyes. Then he wails, “I’m _sorry!_ ” and throws himself at Jack. Jack holds the now-sobbing boy, bewilderment crossing his features. Emily can only make out sporadic words between the sobs, and wonders if Jack, being closer to the source, is having any more luck. From his expression he’s probably not.

But like all good brothers, Jack can’t stand Jamie’s crying for very long. He begins murmuring comforting things into Jamie’s hair—“Hey, it’s okay, everything’s okay, Jamie, c’mon, you’re fine”—until Jamie finally hiccups to a stop.

“I’m sorry,” Jamie says again into Jack’s sweatshirt.

“It’s okay—” Jack starts, but Jamie shakes his head and interrupts him, still speaking into the blue fabric above Jack’s sternum.

“It’s not okay. I said really mean things and I didn’t mean them.” Jamie looks up into Jack’s eyes and repeats forcefully, “I didn’t mean them, Jack. I was just jealous of all the time you were spending with Mom. You’re my big brother and you do belong here.”

“Hey, you’re my little brother, too, you know,” Jack says. “Apology accepted.”

“Thanks, Jack,” Jamie says, but only looks a little relieved. Emily suspects he won’t forgive himself for some time to come.

Sophie tugs on Jack’s pants, where she _still_ hasn’t let go. When Jack looks down at her, she says hopefully, “ _Country Bunny_?”

Jack laughs and agrees. “Yeah. Let’s go read.”

Unsurprisingly, Jack ends up with one little girl, one little boy, and their mother all piled into one small twin bed while he reads _The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes_. 

\--

Considering how often Sophie talks about the Easter Bunny, and how often he supposedly visits her daughter (according to Jamie), it’s surprising that Emily meets him last.

Emily is putting the finishing touches on her outfit for a ‘girl’s night out’ with some coworkers. She hasn’t had a night to be an adult and not a mom in far, far too long, and she is looking forward to it. Jack’s come over to babysit. She might come home to soaking wet rugs hanging over the shower rods from an impromptu indoor snowball fight, but as long as her hardwood floors remain unwarped Emily doesn’t mind. Too much.

She hears Sophie squeal from downstairs, but it’s a happy sound and Jack’s voice doesn’t go low and threatening, so she takes her time. She’s more careful going down the stairs than she used to be, keeping one hand on the rail.

Emily pauses in the entryway when she sees the six-foot-tall anthropomorphic rabbit in her living room, cheerfully tickling a shrieking Sophie. Jack and Jamie are roughhousing next to them, each trying to both tickle and evade the other. Jack notices her first and greets her with a smile. “Hey, Emmy, lookin’ good!”

Jamie uses Jack’s moment of inattention to lay him out flat and attack his sides. Jack hoots with laughter, stuttering out, “Not fair!”

“Says Mr. Snowball-to-the-back-of-the-head,” Emily replies, amused.

The Easter Bunny looks up and meets her eyes. His own are very green, like new leaf buds and young shoots of grass. He sets Sophie upright and pushes her towards the boys; she needs no more encouragement to shout, “Doggie pile!” and throw herself down onto Jamie’s back.

Jack lets out an ‘oomph’ and Jamie complains, “Sophie, no!”

“Bunny, come on!” Sophie shouts. 

“In a tick, ankle biter,” he replies.

Jamie levers her up and bellyflops onto her. Jack takes advantage of his freedom to pile on top with a triumphant crow of, “Top dog! Take that, Jamie!”

The Easter Bunny shakes his head exasperatedly and meets her eyes again with a little shrug, like _kids, right?_ Emily smiles and holds out her hand. “Emily Bennet. Nice to meet you.”

The Easter Bunny rises to his full height and he is tall, but not mountainous like North. (Emily suspects she will always compare tall men to Nicholas St. North from now on.) He’s the competitive swimmer to North’s linebacker: obviously muscular, but built more along a triangular shape than a rectangular. He grasps her hand in a surprisingly dexterous paw. “E. Aster Bunnymund. Pleasure’s all mine.”

Emily pauses. Jack always calls him ‘Bunny’, but Emily never thought that was actually his name. “I’m sorry, but your name is actually Easter Bunny?”

On second thought, she doesn’t know why she’s surprised. The Tooth Fairy’s name is Toothiana and the Sandman’s name is Sanderson Mansnoozie. Really, Nicholas St. North is the only one with what passes for a normal name. 

“Rude!” Jack sing-songs from the pile. By now the Bennett siblings have overpowered him and he is once again on the bottom.

Emily flushes, but Bunnymund rolls his eyes and tells Jack, “No more so than you, Frostbite!”

“No, he’s right, that was rude. I apologize, Mr. Bunnymund.”

“She’s apples. Don’t worry about it.” Bunnymund waves away the apology. “And call me Aster.”

“How come I can’t call you Aster?” Jack complains.

Aster’s eyes glint with amusement. “You never asked.”

Jack pouts. He’d deny it if confronted, but that is a very distinct pout on his lips, and for a moment he looks seventeen, just a boy playing with his younger siblings. The illusion is ruined when he wriggles free of the kids and vaults over the couch with preternatural grace, yelling, “Ha! Can’t catch me now!”

“Watch us!” Jamie crows, and stampedes up the stairs after Jack, Sophie running in their wake, laughing.

“Careful on the stairs,” both she and Aster call up at the same time. 

“Yes, _Mom,_ ” Jack shouts back, echoed by Jamie and Sophie. Despite the sarcasm, it’s the first time Jack has called her that and it brings a smile to her face. 

“And bedtime is nine o’clock!”

“But _Mom,_ ” Jamie shouts, coming to the bannister. “It’s _Friday_!”

“Nine-thirty,” Emily concedes. “And no reading under the covers with your flashlight.”

Jamie groans.

Jack comes into view with Sophie held piggyback. “Don’t worry about it, Em. Have fun tonight!”

Emily grins at him. She adds, as though he isn’t a seasoned babysitter, “Don’t let Sophie catch you with the ‘just one more’ trick.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “I’ll sic her on Bunny.”

Emily continues her normal litany. “Emergency numbers are by the phone. I have my cell if you need me, which is speed-dial two. Speed-dial one is, as always—“

“The hospital,” Jamie and Jack chorus together, coming down the stairs more sedately than they ran up them. Jack takes up the thread. “There’s food in the fridge for Bunny and me, the kids can have snacks but nothing too sugary and no caffeine. Seriously, Emily, we’ll be fine.”

Emily nods. “Alright. Come give me a kiss, kids.”

Sophie gives her a loud smack, Jamie a quick buss—he’s getting to the age where affection is embarrassing, and Emily mourns for it—and she reels Jack in and gives him a kiss to the cheek. “I’ll be home by one,” she tells him, ignoring the frost blooming across the bridge of his nose.

She turns to Aster, who has been watching with something like amusement. “It was good to meet you, Aster. Try not to let the kids run roughshod over you.”

“Have a good night, sheila,” Aster says.

As it turns out, Emily does.

\--

It’s Thursday. Dinner’s over, and they’re watching a movie. It’s Emily’s turn to choose, and she decides Lilo and Stitch is appropriate. They all get teary at some point or other. Jack, especially, though he tries to hide it.

After the movie ends, Sophie climbs into Jack’s lap and says firmly, “Ohana.”

Jamie hangs over Jack’s shoulders. He continues the quotation. “Ohana means family.”

Jack shoots Emily a look. “Did you plan this?”

“Nope,” Emily says serenely. She wraps her arms around all of them as best she can. “Serendipity and clever kids. And family means no one gets left behind.”

“Or forgotten,” Jamie finishes softly.

Jack’s jaw clenches, and he breathes out harshly. “I guess…this is my family, huh?”

“It’s little,” Sophie chimes in.

“And broken,” Emily adds quietly.

“But still good,” Jamie insists.

Jack smiles. “Yeah. Still good.”

\--

epilogue: 

Emily stands alone in the little cemetery that dates all the way back to the founding of Burgess. The headstones are worn and some of them are broken, the names and dates nearly illegible. Still, on these two Emily can make out enough to puzzle out the last name Overland. What she can read of birth and death dates indicates these are Jack’s parents.

Emily kneels and places a yellow lily on each of the graves, for gratitude. She contemplates the headstones for a moment, then says, “I’m sorry you lost him. It must have been devastating. But I can’t be sorry he’s in my life now. I promise I’ll take good care of him for as long as I’m able.”

She stares a moment more, then nods to herself and moves on. Emma’s grave is a bit further on, under a tree and so not quite as weather- and time-worn as her parents’. She’s buried with her husband. Around the bottom of the headstone are curled small, delicate frost flowers; Jack has visited recently. 

For Emma, Emily has a purple hyacinth for sorrow and a sprig of rosemary for remembrance. “I think you’re his biggest regret. That you saw him die, that he forgot you for so long, that he didn’t see you grow up. But he’s proud of how you turned out. I think you would be proud of him too.” Emily smiles. “He’s a good big brother.” She can imagine a laughing little girl with long brown hair and sparkling eyes agree, The best! “I’ll take good care of him.”

Emily gives Emma’s headstone a last farewell pat and leaves.

**Author's Note:**

> Books mentioned:  
>  _The Easter Egg_ by Jan Brett  
>  _The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes_ by DeBose Heyward, pictures by Marjorie Flack
> 
> I recommend both, they're absolutely adorable.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Citizen Of The Universe And A Gentleman To Boot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4122916) by [Sylphidine_Gallimaufry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylphidine_Gallimaufry/pseuds/Sylphidine_Gallimaufry)




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